Cnfrm# JB34K8CD

Sleigh bells in the air Beauty everywhere

Sax solo.  Dreams of sidewalk junk shopping.  Are there reasons?  When dreaming of epic restaurants one knows one shall wake up hungry.  Must have missed something.  Or maybe it's because so much family in town for x-mas. That would make sense.  Hanging out with The Dude for the first time since… well, first time, long time.  “It felt like everything was the same” is something that was not said. Just talking until 5:30 in the morning, like we were eternally young, all life on the cusp of, if only we could just say the right ones, talk it through stone sober, find the right song, the right tube video, the right meme…
  Now I'm really tired. But I ordered some great stuff off etsy before lunch.

Yuletide by the fireside

Long hot showers and sleeping in late after being out late.  No work, no class in… can’t remember… first time, long time.  Meeting funny strangers (and getting gdh (good & decently high), (we call it seasoned)).  Walking around the neighborhood to look at the lights with those holographic glasses that make every bright point of light a candy cane or a gingerbread man or a wreath.

  Can’t believe that it’s been another year, I don’t feel older, I just kinda feel like I’m running out of youth.  Maybe I’m crazy, so what?  Does life push and pull you wherever the fuck it wants and our choices serve to either validate destiny or hopelessly flail against it like a toddler in the surf?  Or do our choices matter, can we effect change, were the things we thought were fate really just luck (good or bad, not judging.)

  Fun group went out on Tuesday. Cailtin (rrh, really really high) laughing laughing so it makes Tony angry because he has to be the responsible one.  She’s wearing those fish earings she wore for the birthday party back in August and she glows pink right through her skin saying what is happiness, but a feeling, a state of mind, like sadness? Poetry, that. Tony scowls and scrolls.  She grabs his warm hand and laughs. Peaking inside her mouth and nostrils, watching the poetry of her soul rip through this fragile body like a 23 year old volcano of joy that will break right through her heart and she doesn’t even know it.  I could be wrong.  I miss being happy.

  I miss being sad in the winter.  Let’s say it started to rain this week for a bit.  A good coupla days in which I should have emailed Alex and M but didn’t.  One thinks of names to say in prayers, thinks of God, another old friend you meant to get in touch with.  November skeleton trees, like on Lorne Park Rd. doing lame Musiq Soulchild dancing in cold up and down wind.  I am naked as the yard.  

A good couple days. I guess we already established that. I guess the fact is its winter brings up how scared I’ve been all year. Having to do the whole Christmas thing, I think I don't feel the pain I once did, and here it comes back.  Doesn’t have to.  So what if I’m crazy?  Dreams of sidewalk junk shopping odd but not surprising.  A broken car hugs the driveway.

And joyful memories there

Not hard to imagine cousins having a good time at Christmas.  John the Baptist took Jesus Christ down to the river on a Friday night, talking about politics and the revolutions of the young, how’s Aunt Mary, playing with fire & water, just boys. nothing to lose.

If only it worked that way.  If only things had gone differently.  Things might as well be different, while I’m going down this train of thought.  Two cousins might not have moved apart, happiness might as well be sadness, love hate, hate love, crying laughing, death life, separation togetherness, I might as well not be me (put a mask on much?) and you might as well not be you and we might as well have never see anything in each other at all.

  But that’s not going to happen.  I am me and no one else can be and I guess that does make me pretty crazy.  Are you listening?

  Yes, you now.  Now I wish that you would just leave.  Now you’re gone. Now I wish that your presence would stop hovering over me.  Not like an angel over those stinkin’ shepherds but like the whole heavenly host.  How the fuck could you miss it?  I see you all the time, over and in everything and no one else notices, which is wonderful and terrifying.  My nerves shiver, tightness in my chest. I tighten my belt, finish the soup.  Once the soup has disappeared I see that it is meaningless to eat or smoke. You, appearing, first time, long time, like a Christmas Carol on the breeze, like a gust of water spray over the rutabagas. Wonderful and terrifying.  

Why not go for a run?  Why not pick up the phone?  Why not dig plastic out and buy more things?  Song comes on the radio.  Sax solo.  Had junk dreams of sidewalk shopping. Are there reasons?  When dreaming of needing to take a piss one knows one shall wake up and need to take a piss.  I am remembering something.

Kinless the Ghost calls for his shadow

“I have seen a person who walked, walked, and walked until he ran into a train”
-Akinwumi Isola

Alcohol is a harsh mistress. A shame society accepts it, but society also accepts people you love who don't love you... coincidence? Yes.

Wisdom is a miserman, hidden away on top of a lonely hill, in a cave perhaps. Having been to that cave when last on the mountain I can tell you skinny he makes a fat lot of sense that doesn't sound anything near the sense people expect you to spout when they say: "make sense" (Mandate.)

For instance: Last night having determined to write a blog about how love ain't for me I meet a girl who is. (Man, date!)

Provocation is fleeting. Here's the damn blog anyway God, you asshole:

I type in my password: BATMAN, (My password is always BATMAN. Except for those systems that require you to change it frequently, or add a number or lowercase, in which case my password is NotBATMAN1) log into the blog site
and slog right
into the writing
of my lastnight forgotten amblings aplaced bry beaded blossoms
mercuric on the evocation of the idea:

What wrong right? Meditate:

Intimacy is an almost muscular struggle for me, both literally and metaphorically. It's debilitating. I come out of a relationship like a miner after a 48hr day, permanent exhaustion buried like a flock of lice under my eyes.

Then the demon alcohol calls me. A Stoli mermaid on the rocks, siren. I don't want to go to the bar, wail. Protest, don't wanna a drink tonight (Waa!) but still my Chevy swerves, drives there anyway, traffic conspiring against a turn-around backout, I go in. Await the initial shock of the shot I've instinctively ordered, waitering for the perfect sad god jukebox moment to swing in and signal, it has begun.

I won't meet anyone tho. Tho the lights dim.

Meditate. Thinking

Perhaps love isn't for everyone. Perhaps the "there is a someone for everyone myth" is a façade, for for some people love is more of an effort than others, the extremities of experience and feeling are these great vulnerable impasses that impress upon them that perhaps they are meant to be hermits. I am one of these people. I cannot connect with other people. I was not meant to. I am not meant to connect with people.

You know who I can connect with?
The litter strewn open road
-The spontaneous poem
The sleepless night

-The heat lightning that never leads to rain
The nearly moldy leftover Tupperware container at the back of the middle shelf of the refrigerator

-The pot smoking dishwasher's duct-taped Converse
The empire state building as seen from Nova Scotia

-The fighting spirit of the Pecan
The pioneering correspondent on the edge of forever

I am meant to be a heretic. A loner, a frantic wanderer of the worlds of words like
a nude woman running the hallway I like to sing in winter. I like to prick seduction, modest in death alight

when I smoke I take off my shirt and sweat, drinking

Pale. Ale. A bittle of spittle on the drip of my uncommunicative lip.

Somewhere long ago something prematurely
killed off all the minor-key affects in me
like friendliness, boredom, low-level appreciation, passing affection, passionate sexprayer or the wingéd-angel inamorato birdtouch of the unseeable unseeable godking.

The only fermata a lingering yearn.
What left is all

Lascivious sexual fantasy in the chips and candy aisle.

Existential epiphanies in the arbouretum.

I consider writing some lines, some
weight of the world song
couched in lyric light and haw haw but can DMM write it?

No.

____ ____ will end like so many earnest nights thinking & drinking I been through before, a different hand stamp every weekend, the stifling airless bars with inhabitants indigenous & indifferent grumbling & ordering things while in anguish I languish in search of the girl & find instead all inter-woven only human mortality, empty glasses, fears of artistic failure and a tenuous, ambiguous relationship to time reversing til they dig the old sadsacka- up,
Light me up that cigarette and drop a coat on my back
and walk through the valley of the shadow of the last train laughing footsteps that were next to me go
have gone and in the prisms of my mind I've seen enough now to know that beautiful things don't last that way
done enough to know the razor sharp rules of love come disguised in smiles and light
walking towards waters small boats of solitude scrawled upon with names like cowardice leaping rudderless upon the blue ocean blooming crests beneath a chandelier of stars your words remembered still in silent

Meditation: Here I am today.

Despair, debasement, awake the stagger from Dantean music to blunt dejection in the single flicker of his eyes as he shakes his head returns to the purling old-om eastern lung rhythm, sigh. But it could be fun, everyone would love- she will come- he doesn't think so. Write nothing. He returns to the deep from whence... such squalor tonite, I think. Such clamor and fake tits in clubs with such steep covers. Dark pits, the pounding, I look back and see he is calm, or mostly. Like a sigh, A cow, a child going off to school on a day when there is nothing better to do, than go to school.

Of course that's never how it works out.

I met the girl in a simple conversation that you might just call chance and leaping hearts abound, you
, astounds, you. You, O

We all know

where this is going. We make plans and love sours them. I have no idea why I even went out last night. Next thing you know I'll be marrying the girl and then kids making me ambitious get a job to support the many suckling suck mouths and I

think

Man!

Man fuck the regiment and it's little interlaces of certitude. Ask about my String Theory. What wrong stellefaction? What wrong mundanities? Animism? My saints protect me, stroking I pray

to:

St. Nothing of the Real Hard Sadness

St. Nothing of the Doggystyle fuck

St. Nothing of the Steady Speculation

st. Nothing of the Little Strolling Week

St. Nothing of the Smoking Recollection

St. Nothing of the 9000 Parliament Glare

St. Nothing of the talking Dead Chicken Dumpling

St. Nothing of the Least Remembered Conversations

St. Nothing of the Hand-holding Wonders

St. Nothing of the Thinking away the night

St. Nothing of the Whole Boring Yesterday

St. Nothing of the Last Seventeen Rides

St. Nothing of the Nonstop Phone Ringing Ringing

St. Nothing of the Let's Talk Exception

St. Nothing of the Stewing Purchased Want

St. Nothing of the Pictures without Voices

St. Nothing of the Grisly Wild Lake Littoral

St. Nothing of the Ruthless Tide Salvation

St. Nothing of the Another Weekend Ends

What wrong adoration?

I want to write a blog saying love is not for me, and meet a girl. While I am sleeping the clouds roll in, I guard the interior from a further interior, my dreams prey on each other, procreating vultures, copulating with their dead offspring eternally groundless that usually live in the darker recesses of my mad cornered mind. What do my dreams dream about?

When the last nostalgia?

Where the floorboards of content?

My brave night disguises melt and pour onto the sequestered self's tiny remaining box, inaccessible, the singular puzzle inside I hear the rains harden and moreover watch out the window with my eyes still shut as great uproareous projectile shape-clouds graze the sky. I am deaf, I scream in the dream and awake, naked. Meditate.

The whole thing weighing on me, finding it's apex on the back of my throat and I yawn, not alone any longer. She beside me. The tousseled blankets our nights' only legacy.